Friday, December 24, 2010

Friday, December 10, 2010

I really wish more Australian boys would get onboard the white look for summer.

The other week I found myself all but following some random guy into the city. It's not as creepy as it sounds: we were just walking the same way for about 15 minutes and - yes - I could have gone another route but I preferred to follow him because I was completely entranced, even though I could basically barely make out his face. The reason - it occured to me after about two blocks - was that he was wearing all white: a loose white shirt and a pair of quite delightful white pants, worn with what looked like a really simple pair of thongs. Better yet he was carrying absolutely nothing - no bag, not texting away - and gave off a vibe of being about as carefree as a boy can be on a warm summer day.

In short, he looked amazing and so much cooler (in, I guess, both senses of the word) than the Aussie muppets who run around in boardies and thongs all summer long. I'm just putting it out there in the hope that it will catch on and I can take full credit but I reckon this is The Look for boys this summer. So come on male reader(s): buy your white clothes now, thank me later. Oh, and for GOD'S SAKE please send me a photo.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

ME(To the person next to me): Is he... not wearing a shirt under his leather jacket?RANDOM GIRL IN FRONT OF ME (Turning around): HE NEVER WEARS A SHIRT! HOW HOT IS HE!!ME (Nervous smile. Long pause): I bet he gets really sweaty.

So I saw someone else linking to this site, Cute Boys With Cats, and my immediate thought was that I have not entirely normal taste and the chances that I would find these boys cute was slim to none. Then I realised the truth: any boy looks 100 per cent cuter with a cat on his lap/arm/face. True story.

Monday, December 6, 2010

Do you remember that scene in High Fidelity (both the book and the film) where the main character meets up with an ex-girlfriend, the one he has put on a pedastal for years and year, only to discover that she's awful. That's the word he uses: "She's AWFUL." Still hot (played in the film by Catherine Zeta Jones) but pretentious, boring and completely self-obsessed.

Turns out, I've had a very similar experience. I recently met up with someone from my school days (nobody, I should note, who reads this blog). In the old days this guy was the object of half the school's desire. He was beautiful, super smart and seemed like he had all the answers. I mooned over him for a good wasted year or two, too blind to realise he was probably actually a bit of a wanker.

Then I met up with him again, through pure chance that thrust us together for a few days. He was still gorgeous, still apparently very smart. And he was awful. Just AWFUL. I don't want to transcribe any of the things he did or said here, just in case he stumbles onto this blog and recognises himself, but it was bad. He was pretentious, completely self-obsessed to the point where he couldn't talk about anything else, and utterly deluded about his place in the world.

I loved it.

I loved being able to subtly take the piss out of him without him appearing to realise it. I loved having some of my friends ask me who this wanker was. I loved completely blowing him off towards the end because I just Could Not Be Arsed Dealing With Him.

The whole experience made me wish I had gone to my 10 Year School Reunion earlier this year. Would have been great fun.

I have apparently been living under some kind of rock. How else to explain the fact that I missed Mr Gunn utterly unloading on Gossip Girl's least talented, most annoying actress: Taylor Momsen, who plays "Jenny" in the series. You know Momsen: the 16-year-old who dresses like a 38-year-old meth-addicted hooker whose rent was due yesterday.

Gunn recently filmed a guest spot on Gossip Girl (which was, I admit, kinda painful to watch) and apparently found Momsen something of a douche:

"What a diva!" he told E! News. "She was pathetic, she couldn't remember her lines, and she didn't even have that many. I thought to myself 'why are we all being held hostage by this brat?'"

Gunn said that Momsen's constant Blackberry use was the main problem and the director told him it happened "day in, day out, my life." He said that if he was a regular on the show he would give her some advice.

"I'd say, 'You know young lady, there are hundreds of thousands of girls who are just as attractive and even smarter than you. Why are you acting like this show is a huge burden on you?'" he told E! "She was on her phone during every break, I wanted to tell her, 'If you weren't on your BlackBerry, you can retain this stuff.'"

Like I say this is seriously old news (I'm talking September) but I couldn't resist because I love it. I love it so much that I want to beg Gunn to shadow me in my daily life, taking potshots at all the people who get up my nose and doing so in charming, well-clad way.

Monday, November 15, 2010

LOW: Realising, several hours into the night, that doing my makeup in the back of a moving taxi and without a mirror had yielded results there were more "streaky racoon" than "stunning temptress".

HIGH: Discovering that I still know the lyrics from that Butterly Effect song that was really big years and years ago. Come on, you know the one.

LOW: Hour-long car ride to a family-do The Morning After with a stinking hangover.

HIGH Having one of those magical taxi experiences when you are walking towards a (packed) taxi rank and pass by one with its light on, which immediately pulls over for you. Double points for not having a creepy driver with a rapist vibe!

LOW Thinking I looked pretty good right up until the point I walked out of the bathroom stall to find one of the hottest girls I have ever seen in my entire life admiring her arse in the mirror. Fuck, if I had an arse like that I'd never stray far from the mirror either.

Friday, November 12, 2010

I don't usually link to the lovely Nick Lezard's column, because there's already a link sitting on the right-hand-side of this blog and I figure you can click on it any old time you like. That much said, his latest column is a charmer and worth your time, particularly for the recently dumped.

First of all, congratulations on your fine choice of automobile. Most people look at my car and see a shitty and somewhat-dented hatchback. You looked at it and saw what I see: a sweet ride that runs like a dream, asks little for little in the way of maintenance and never breaks down in a crisis. Granted, neither the air-conditioning or heating are what they used to be (ie: functional) but the windows roll down easily and the radio is in excellent working order at least 95 per cent of the time.

And yet.

I don't mean to be cruel but if you're not able to successfully steal an unattended 1986 Ford Laser with one broken lock perhaps you should, dare I say it, look into a new line of work. Yes, I agree, you did manage to prise the little metal casing off from the ignition but it would appear that - judging by the fact I still have my car - the operation went somewhat pear shaped right about then. What went wrong? Was it that the ignition lock proved more complex than you had imagined or was it simply that you failed to come prepared with a suitable array of tools at your disposal?

Worse still, you showed a complete lack of initiative. The backseat of my car contained a box stuffed with a delightful array of trashy novels - inclduing the complete Sookie Stackhouse series, which is a rolickingly good read - but you left them untouched. The front seat contained a bag of Felicity DVDs (all four seasons), which you also left behind. Is it that you don't care for American 90s college dramas starring Keri Russell or is it that you're simply unable to think on your feet and take advantage of a situation?

In closing, while I share your fondness for my beloved vehicle I feel obliged to strongly recommend that you give up the car-stealing business, as it is a trade in which you show very little skill or willingness to learn. If you're not prepared to put in the yard hards and acquire some suitable tools or training I'm afraid I see very little future for you in this business.

Also, while it pains me to be cruel to a fello Laser Hatchback enthusiast I must also warn you that if I ever find you trying to steal my baby again I'll run you down in the fucking street.

Sunday, October 31, 2010

Halloween, as everyone knows, is an excuse for girls to dress like sluts and not get called sluts. It's a wonderful thing. I typed "as everyone knows" but this is, perhaps, inaccurate. It would have been more accurate to say "as everyone finds out one day". For me that day was about 15 years ago at a Halloween party when I was on the cusp of my teenage years.

The Halloween party was being thrown by a neighbourhood friend of mine who was a year or two older than me and much, much more mature. I, for instance, did not then know that Halloween was an excuse to doll myself up in something black, skin-tight and as revealing as was logistically possible.

Hence my decision to dress up as a pumpkin.

The costume was a simple: I stuffed a lurid oversized orange t-shirt with an old bed sheet, cinched it in at the waist with a belt and poked my scrawny pre-pubsecent legs into a pair of green leggings. A green ice-cream container, jammed onto my head, completed the winning ensemble. Sadly no photos of the event survive to this day but I looked, I can only presume, like an obese 8-year-old with jaundice. My Mum said I looked great.

I realised I had made a mistake only when I arrived at the party to discover two things:

1. There were boys at this party.2. Almost every single other girl at the party was dressed as a slutty witch.

This was not like any of the parties I had attended to date, where parents oversaw wholesome party games involving balloons, everyone was included and the worst that could happen was a bad red creaming soda spill. Here, girls giggled together in groups, ignoring plates of sausage rolls, flicking their hair and flashing glances towards the groups of boys who frankly looked as bemused as I did.

These girls were not like the girls I knew: their hair was shiny and styled, their barely blossoming boobs pointed skyward with the aid of push-up bras and their red lips and black eyes revealed that they, unlike I, had known the touch of a make-up brush. To me, waddling across the room in my pumpkin finery, they appeared not like girls at all but minature women.

Needless to say they terrified me.

Even so I did not actually flee the scene until someone decided that a game of Spin The Bottle was just what the balmy spring evening called for. In vain I looked for a parental figure to intervene and suggest a rousing game of Pass the Parcel, or perhaps just a round of cold showers, instead. But my friends parents simply smiled indulgently and disappeared to another part of house, upping the volume on Hey, Hey It's Saturday to drown out the sound of teenage hormones zinging through the air. Silently I fumed at their idea of responsible parenting, thinking to myself that if one or all of their daughters wound up impregnated by a douchebag called "Stevo" by their 16th birthday they would have nobody to blame but themselves.

Then - and only then - did I flee.

Which all goes to explain what happened this weekend when I donned a short black dress, threw on some slap and plaited my hair to attend a Halloween party. What the hell was I supposed to be exactly? I was calling it 'Slutty Wednesday Adams'.

Naturally my costume was put to absolute shame by many of the others, particularly the brave fellow who dresed as a triffid from John Wyndham's charming novel, Day of the Triffids. Unsurprisingly, however, I blended in perfectly well among the gaggle of other women. Lo here a sexy spy (short Stella McCartney-for-Target black dress, big blonde hair, legs up to her armpits), yonder there a Saucy Catwoman (skin-tight leggings, come-fuck-me boots and a token pair of cat ears).

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

I KNOW that Italian men cannot possibly be as universally hot as the world of cinema would have me believe.

And yet if they all looked like Riccardo Scamarcio I'd be on a plane right now.

The problem with Scamarcio is that he doesn't look like he's all that in a still photo: he's one of those token smokin' hotties who really has to be seen on the screen to be appreciated. I came up against him in the film Loose Cannons* last night. It was a pretty so-so film made less endurable by the fact that I was sitting with the world's most annoying people on either side of me (on the left: two shrieking nutbars, on the right: the world's loudest and most disgusting popcorn eater ever. Plus there was a guy behind me who kept scratching himself for a good 5 minutes at a time. Weird. ).

And yet, although the film was not that great and in spite of the fact that it also featured the sublime Giorgio Marchesi I could not take my eyes off Scamarcio. He has - to steal an expression from my friend Nick - gravitas. In spades. It's not just the way he moves, although there is something there: it's his face. He has one of those faces you feel you could just look at for hours and hours. Not everyone has a face like that: James Franco, who is one of the most attractive people I can think of, does not. Benicio Del Toro, who isn't conventionally all that great, does. Orlando Bloom - again in theory very pretty - doesn't. Marlon Brandon did.

Scamarcio also, bizarely, has the ability to look about 16-years-old at one moment and 35 in the next. That might sound like an insult but given that he is 31 in real life I mean it as a compliment. There were moments in the film when he was romping around in bathers that I thought 'how YOUNG is this kid?' and then other moments when he was squinting into the sun, all linen shirt and pressed trousers, when I thought I'd got him wrong entirely.

Either way, I'm glad he's not 16 because a)that would make me feel a bit weird writing this because fancying a teenager seems a bit wring; and b)he's not at risk of growing out of his teenage beauty into a pudgy, bloaty 20-something. Stay gold Scamarcio, stay gold...

* As an off-topic aside I would like to express my frustration at the fact that this uneven Italian movie (starts well but goes nowhere fast) rates higher than two of my favourite films: Ladyhawke and Fletch, according to the Internet Movie Database. This is pro-European snobbery of the worst kind.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

1. Trying to distinguish between 18 different shades of off-white with names like "eggshell", "ocean caps" and "chilled breeze". Lengthy exposure to those little paint cards is more paranoia-inducing than a tray of hash muffins: you start thinking am I crazy or are they all just kinda fucking off-white?

2. Accidentally painting over the light switch. Yeah doesn't seem like a big deal now but at the time I think I may actually have wept.

3. The fifth trip to Bunnings and the knowing stares from the guys in the paint department. Oh those knowing stares...

4. Getting a massage on the second day of painting and hearing the masseuse say "um, you have a lot of paint on you" in much the same tone you or I might use to inform someone "I think you have leprosy - your left hand just fell off in my soup".

5. The fumes. People, I can't emphasise this enough: when you start to giggle at nothing in particular and you're halfway up a ladder, having painted for 5 hours straight, you are already high as a kite from the fumes. Crack a window, open a door: do not breathe in.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

One of the best bits of relationship advice I ever got was from my dear and wise friend Lindsay. If you're going to do something a bit messed up, she said, then cover your tracks.

The beauty of this piece of advice - which sounds utterly obvious but really isn't always - is that it can be applied to a great number of situations. If, for instance (and obviously I'm talking PURELY hypothetically here) you are going to have a fucking BREAKDOWN about the growing suspicion that your girlfriend's enthusiasm for the relationship might be waning, it is a good idea to have said breakdown in the privacy of your own bedroom instead of, say, on the university campus in front of a whole bunch of curious people very pointedly Not Staring At The Car Crash But Actually Very Obviously Staring At the Car Crash.

Similarly, if you're going to read your sister's diary you should remember where you got the diary from in the first place and replace it, not casually leave it open on the desk to the part where your sister was (over)analysing the two minute conversation she had with Beautiful James by the stairs and wondering whether what he meant by "see you in History" was something closer to "the combination of your glasses, braces and orthodics enchants me - take me now, by the D-block lockers".

Which brings me to my friend. Let's call him... Wooster.

Before I go on, a brief disclaimer. Wooster would like it to be known that he is NOT a habitual sniffer of womens dirty underwear. Nevertheless, the facts are these:

1. Wooster did retrieve a pair of his girlfriend's dirty knickers from her laundry basket.2. He did sniff them.3. He did leave the knickers on the bed.4. He was caught.5. He is now in trouble with his girlfriend.

Leaving aside your views on knicker huffing (for the record I think it ranks fairly tamely on a spectrum of kink that includes pegging and scat) what's important to recognise is that Wooster ran into his current troubles because he forgot The Lindsay Principle: if you're going to do something a bit messed up then cover your tracks.

Here's how it could have played out.

1. Wooster did retrieve a pair of his girlfriend's knickers from her laundry basket.2. He did sniff them.3. He did not leave the knickers on the bed.4. His girlfriend never needed to trouble her pretty little head about it.5. Wooster did get to have sex with his girlfriend again.

But accidents happen. I should know: I once dyed my dear friend Ali's hair ginger. So sometimes 'covering your tracks' doesn't cut it. You did something a bit messed up and now you need to deal with it.

Or do you? Have you met my friend denial?

I met denial back in primary school when, for reasons that still remain slightly unclear to me, I at some point decided that to turn up at school IN MY PAJAMAS AND DRESSING GOWN was not a terrible idea. It's not quite as bad as it sounds: our school was having its annual musical and my Mum was driving to school to pick up my sister, who had been doing backstage work... or something. Anyway, I went along for the ride and only decided to get out of the car on a whim... for some reason. Obviously I immediately ran into a huge number of my classmates who, strangely enough, did not spontaneously forget this fact by the following day. Never overburdened by popularity I was unwilling to make the jump to fully fledged social outcast. And so I lied. Or rather I denied. It went something like this.

CLASSMATE: Why were you at school in your dressing gown?

ME: (Casually eating an apple as though to demonstrate just how ludicrous such a suggestion is) I wasn't.

CLASSMATE: But I saw you.

ME: (Chewing ponderously) No you didn't.

CLASSMATE: Yeah I did. So did other people.

ME: (Now starting to run out of apple) No they didn't.

CLASSMATE: We all did.

ME: I think not.

I wasn't entirely successful. (Marlon Brando I was not - I was more like... Tom Brando). But as a strategy the idea that you could simply deny something, just will it out of existence, was very appealing and I never forgot it (just as I assume certain classmates never forgot the sight of me in my Noel Coward dressing gown and pajama pants racing across the carpark, the over-long cord of my dressing gown trailing behind me to give the impression I was enjoying a spot of nighttime kite flying).

With this in mind, let's take another quick look back at how Wooster might have fared had he failed on The Lindsay Principle but remembered to deny, deny, deny.

1. Wooster did retrieve a pair of his girlfriend's knickers from her laundry basket.2. He did sniff them.3. He did leave the knickers on the bed.4. He was caught.5. The following scene ensued.

GIRLFRIEND: Wooster, uh why is there a pair of knickers on my bed?

WOOSTER: (Also eating an apple in the misguided belief that it makes him appear nonchalant) I don't know.

GIRLFRIEND: I put them in the laundry this morning.

WOOSTER: (Smacking his lips) Oh really?

GIRLFRIEND: Yes really. Did you take them out?

WOOSTER: No.

GIRLFRIEND: So how did they get on the bed?

WOOSTER: (Chewing a bit faster) I don't know.

GIRLFRIEND: Well, if I didn't do it then who else do you think took them out of the laundry and put them on the bed? On your side of the bed? Any thoughts?

WOOSTER: (Taking increasingly big bites of the apple) Nope.

GIRLFRIEND: I know it was you!

WOOSTER: (Mouth full of apple) Fjkdfkjdfkljf

GIRLFRIEND: What?

WOOSTER (Mouth really very very full of apple): dfskjsdflkjdsf

GIRLFRIEND: WHAT?!

WOOSTER: (Barely intelligible among all the apple) I'm... choking.

Because this is the second great piece of relationship advice everyone should know: that when you paint yourself into a corner and there is absolutely no other way out, having tried but failed to deploy The Lindsay Principle and a generous serve of denial, it is perfectly acceptable to fake a near death experience, provided that you at no point allow an ambulance to be called. We're calling this The Wooster Principle and I hope for all of your sakes, dear readers, that you never need to use it.

POSTSCRIPT: My charming boyfriend would like me to point out to those who know us that "Wooster" is not him. I do so gladly, though I may say he is welcome to sniff my knickers if he cares to. I also add that, although this story is real, Wooster is not his real name, though it would be a good one.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Let me say first, that this binge is For Work*. The fact that I'm blogging about it is just for fun and possibly to pass onto my doctor when my liver ultimately explodes.

11.37am: Waiting for my pick-up, thinking that 11.37am seems like a very early time to start drinking. This realisation is, I think, a good thing, because it clearly proves I am not an alcoholic.

1.50pm: Bartender at MUST bar in Beaufort Street is impossibly dreamy. Looks like some sort of Spanish prince, speaks like an English public school boy. Also knows what he is talking about. Feel like a prick for leaving half my wine but important to conserve stamina.

I am reliably informed that your latest edition will be including a slew of new and 'exciting' additions. These include - but are not limited to - bromance, BFF (best friends forever), little black dress, tramp stamp (I'm really not sure if that's one word or two) and unfriend.

What the fuck, dictionary?

Are you trying to say that if I'm playing scrabble and put down BFF on a triple word score that I deserve the points? For shame - I would deserve nothing.

Watching this kind of shit make it into the dictionary doesn't make the dictionary cool. The dictionary is already cool to those of us whose idea of a good time is playing the game 'dictionary' on a Saturday night (don't be a judger: it's awesome) and impossibly dull to pretty much everyone else.

Finding the 'word' "BFF" in the dictionary sandwiched between, I don't know, "bezel" (a sloping face or edge of a chisel or other cutting tool) and "bhang" (an Indian hemp plant, apparently) makes me want to weep. It's like being forced to watch your highly-respected English tutor try to break dance at an end-of-year university function.

I hope to see you pull your socks up and purge some of this shit next year. You know the stuff I'm talking about: when I look up the word "cougar" I only want to see a definition with the words "big cat" in it.

Saturday, September 18, 2010

I've been told twice in two days that I should be writing on here again and I agree. I miss this stupid blog and the opportunity to vent when I'm not being paid to do so and don't have to take things seriously and, you know, pretend I can spell. Coming back is always hard, though. It's like trying to end a fight with someone: once the first couple of words are out and you've had a post-fight conversation it's ok but being the one to apologise or break the cold shoulder thing you've got going on is a real bitch.

So, to jump back in via the wussiest of means, I thought I'd make a list of a few of the things I've learned since the last time I posted. Bear in my mind reader(s) that I am a moron and thus much of what appears below is stuff you've known since you were old enough to see your face in the bathroom mirror without the aid of a stool.

Realisation One: Never start a sentence "All I'm saying is…" when you're having an argument. This phrase doesn't end fights - it starts them. All I'm saying is that if you don't believe me, you're a dick.

Realisation Two: It's okay to half-arse it at work sometimes. Wait, allow me to clarify: should anyone from work be reading this then, obviously, it goes without saying that this half-arse stuff isn't something I would do PERSONALLY. I am, of course, speaking hypothetically. But, really, the odd bout of not earning your wage can be a wonderful thing.

Realisation Three: You shouldn't keep a sharpened axe in the fireplace. Sure, it was there when you moved in but now it just looks creepy.

Realisation Four:There's nothing wrong with popping a (metaphorical) pan on the (metaphorical) back-burner with a low flame, just in case. You'd go fucking MAD if you didn't.

Realisation Five: Despite some apparent concerns (if concern is the right word, which I don't think it is) from a family member during my teenage years, I must be the straightest girl in the world, based on the amount of time I fritter away thinking about boys. Boys, boys, boys. Yeah, they're not bad.

Realisation Six: It's possible to change your mind about very fundamental things. I mean, five years ago I would never have conceded that Mark Ruffalo is a stone cold fox. And yet...

Sunday, May 16, 2010

I'm not saying I have kidnapped Ian Somerhalder and hidden him in the crawl space where I can get lost in his eyes whenever I damn well please. But I am saying that if Somerhalder disappears in the immediate future this conversation never happened...

Sunday, March 28, 2010

Why thankyou. I mean, I don't actually have any 'employees' so I'm not sure you can call me an employer but I appreciate the fact you obviously consider me a high-powered business-type-person.

We are glad to inform you of beginning staff recruitment for the position of the Financial Agent in Australia. We are looking for the best candidates meeting the demands of our clients. The number of vacancies for this position is limited, that's why the recruitment takes place on a competition basis.

Yes, but perhaps I should repeat myself: I don't actually...

We select the best employees and, probably, you are the one whom we are looking for!

Saturday, March 20, 2010

... sometimes you think you've done well to overcome your short fuse and hot temper by not saying anything. Other times you find yourself wishing you actually had told so-and-so he was being a fucking prick. Which he was, FYI.

Friday, March 19, 2010

As many of you probably know, I had my wisdom teeth yanked out on Wednesday. The actual surgery part was considerably more terrifying than I'd expected, pathetically enough, but the recovery has been quite delightful. Yes, my throat is weirdly sore. Yes, my jaw is aching like a mo-fo and YES I might be hooked on Panadeine Forte but what price that feeling you get waking up on a Friday morning and knowing you don't have to get out of bed, eh? Eh? If somebody could drop off a bottle of wine and a straw I would be SORTED.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Nancy Elliot, if you're lucky enough not to be familiar with her, is a US politician who recently made some truly insightful and intelligent remarks about why same sex marriage legislation in the state of New Hampshire should be scrapped:

“We’re talking about taking the penis of one man and putting it in the rectum of another man and wiggling it around in excrement. And you have to think… would I allow that to be done to me?”

I think that stick up your arse is probably doing the job nicely, Nancy.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

... that I am getting old enough to be a little bit obsessed with youth. I don't think I'm quite at the Death in Venice or Lolita stage of obsession but let's just say that if I saw this Parisian boy strolling the streets of Perth I would stalk ten types of hell out of him. And possibly lure him back to my place with a bag of sweets.

Monday, February 15, 2010

I have been a very lazy and thoughtless blogger lately, for a whole variety of reasons. For starters, as most of you know, I have been busily attempting to become a home owner. Apartment owner. Whatever. For another I have been doing a bit of travelling, mostly for work. Finally I have been rather uninspired and uninspiring lately, completely bogged down and generally Bored As Fuck with both the writing I am required to do for my job and the writing I do for free.

Nevertheless, to mark my return to more regular (I hope) blogging, let’s take it back to what this site is really all about: Token Smokin’ Hotties and the women and men who love them (okay that category may only include me but I'm sure there are a few fellow pervs among my slender readership).

Specifically let’s talk about Michael Dorman, of whose existence I was entirely unaware until last night when he cropped up in the Aussie vampire film, Daybreakers.

To answer your first question, no Daybreakers isn’t great: it started really well and looks consistently great but it gets pretty nuts towards the end and the gore factor goes from mild to extreme, um, very quickly. I for one could have done with seeing fewer heads being pulled off bodies.

However, Michael Dorman – who plays the brother of the main character, who in turn is played by Ethan Hawke – is so blindingly delicious that I would heartily recommend the movie to anyone who likes-that-sort-of-thing and has a bit of spare cash, merely that they might drink in the beautiful liquid pools of Dorman's eyes.

He’s so hot, indeed, that I started to get ANGRY every time the camera cut away from him to Ethan “face like a scrunched up towel” Hawke - a decent actor I once swooned over but who is now increasingly beginning to resemble a goblin with a wasting disease.

He’s so hot that he looks good with a gun, this Dorman - even to a stooge like me who usually finds men with guns about as hot as a pap smear. In fact, fuck it, Dorman's so hot he kind of made me wish that I was a gun that he could swing about and slide down the back of his pants, holster and load then cock and …. *long pause while Kate regroups and reconsiders her NRA membership*… I’m sorry, aaand I’m back.

Anyway, the bitch is smoking hot, that’s all I’m saying, and he can act too, which is a plus but not a requisite for the Token Smokin' Hotties of this world. His American accent certainly shat all over that of Sam Neil and Claudia Karvan (who I actually like but who I thought was fucking dreadful in this). Somebody get this guy an awesome script and a hit movie that we might see more of him. And I mean that literally.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Dubai TV is so fucking awesome I can't even explain it. I spent 10 minutes (being driven from the airport to the cruise ship) in the back of one of those cars with a TV in the headrest and saw a dude high-kick three other dudes in the head while his girlfriend got literally stabbed in the back. The weirdest thing was that the whole show/movie(?) was shot in a weird way that made it look kinda exactly like a car commercial. A violent, awesome car commercial. Then, on my cruise ship TV there was this one channel that showed simply a close up of a man, lying in bed, his eyes open and his hand reaching towards a bell on the bedside table. I'm 99.9 per cent sure that channel was just stuffed up and had frozen but what if it wasn't??